


The Pole Will Decide Your Fate

by reyiosa



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Crack, Legends Lore Used Poorly, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Jango Fett, POV Mace Windu, Pole Dancing, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Undercover, don't worry i deserve it, if i don't update again it's because samuel L jackson sent a hitman to my home address
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25807252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reyiosa/pseuds/reyiosa
Summary: Knight Mace Windu goes undercover as a stripper. Jango Fett suffers the consequences.
Relationships: Jango Fett/Mace Windu
Comments: 32
Kudos: 144





	The Pole Will Decide Your Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/gifts).



> Inspired by blackkat and their incredible anons. Please be aware of slavery mentions and non-consent mentions—neither activity takes place in the fic itself.

As soon as he received the assignment, Mace Windu knew it was going to be an interesting one. It was meant to go to one of his peers who had more experience in these types of roles. Unfortunately, they were indisposed with a broken tibia after a training accident.

The assignment was urgent and critical, and Mace was one of the few knights in the temple with the time and discipline to make it happen.

“Master Yala Pastoo has requested backup in breaking up a trafficking ring led by Zon Ziyad in the Outer Rim.” The Master reciting the mission parameters was carefully blank in emotion at the slaver’s name, but the Force bristled at the effort.

Ziyad was a known trafficker and slaver whose most recent speciality was in Force sensitives. That did not change the importance of bringing down Ziyad, but it encouraged even the more cynical Senators to show allegiance to the cause.

But only if Pastoo could find hard proof.

“This mission requires you to assume the identity of a dancer at an establishment called Blue Muun on Nar Shadda. There, you are to meet a contact and receive key information about Ziyad’s next shipment. It could be the evidence we need to bring a case to the Senate.”

The Master paused here. What they said next was clearly off-script. “You will likely be exposed to unwelcome contact of a sexual nature. You are free to turn down such interactions within acceptable means.” _Acceptable means_ being ways that would not reveal Mace as a Jedi. “Nevertheless, given the nature of this mission, you are free to refuse it without further explanation.”

Mace bowed. “I accept the mission and its parameters, Masters.”

The Shadow who met him afterwards showed Mace where to hide his lightsaber seamlessly in his soon-to-be work outfit. Calling it an outfit, though, seemed like a bit of a stretch.

It consisted of a white, leather-like garment that covered the bare minimum of what trousers should cover. There were shoulder pieces—the mockery of pauldrons—that attached via straps around his chest, framing his pectoral muscles and leaving his torso entirely exposed. It had accompanying ribbons that wrapped around his forearms, but he was warned against wearing them unless he felt confident in his dancing skills. They would reduce the friction he’d need to use a pole.

“Ah, yes,” Mace said, more confidently than he felt. “A pole.”

Apparently, the type of dancing he was expected to do involved swinging, swirling, and gyrating around a metal pole. It required grace, flexibility, immense muscular strength, and control—all qualities in a Jedi Knight, coincidentally. The glories of undercover work, Mace thought humorlessly to himself. Qui-Gon would never, ever hear of this.

The footwear wasn’t much better: a pair of short boots with pointed heels, each six inches tall. Mace could walk no more than four steps in them at first. The Shadow encouraged him to practice if he could: they’d highlight his legs and help better his disguise.

“I’ve also left a holo of the dances you’ll be expected to do,” added the Shadow. “There’ll be a pole installed in the first ship you’re leaving on so you can practice.”

Mace was grimly thankful for that. It was the type of undercover mission that required two ships: the first being a Jedi one where he was still Knight Mace Windu, pole besides, and the second where he was Osse, a Korun migrant trying his luck for work anywhere, even if it had to be Nar Shadda.

By the time he arrived to the dark moon, he’d become his identity, accomplishing only the basics of the pole but no longer tottering in six-inch heels.

Blue Muun was run by a rodian who wore hunger on his face like a trophy. Mace was required to audition, of course, but the rodian didn’t seem to pay much attention to his performance. It became clear why. 

“Two hundred credits a night for stage time?” yelped Mace, straining his voice with emotion to sound like someone doing this for money.

“I got a reputation to keep,” said the rodian, licking his lips as he alternated between making notes on a datapad and looking over Mace like a cut of bantha meat. “You don't know my clientele, you’ll make it up in no time. Get something flashier though, that . . . whatever that is, it’s plain. Dress it up.”

Mace restrained the urge to look down at his outfit and twitch. The nautolan behind the rodian—his assistant—laughed into her hand. Later, when she was showing a range of costumes to him in private, she asked him how many days he’d danced for.

“That bad, huh?” admitted Mace, dropping his head in half-feigned bashfulness. He hoped she’d see ‘clumsy amateur’ rather than ‘undercover agent’ in that move.

“It’s all in the hips, honey." She winked at him. "You got the look and the muscle, and some of our customers like the new ones, if you know what I mean. Oh, no, don’t look like that, chin up! If someone does something you don’t want, you smile, push their hand away, and say no. They don’t stop? Signal our boys in the back.” She was referring to the pair of gamorreans that served as the club’s bouncers. “Let them do the dirty work.”

_Don’t let them see you as more than a pretty face._ Mace got that loud and clear.

He still couldn’t restrain the sigh when she showed him ‘the perfect outfit’ for his debut. That provoked her to cackle again.

* * *

Jango Fett was having a shit day.

He hated Nar Shadda. He hated having to deal with slavers. And he hated the clubs that slavers would expect him to be in.

When a kel dor named Pastoo reached out to him and asked him for a price of information to undermine Zon Ziyad, he nearly offered it for free. Slavers and any hut’tuun that served them were a personal pleasure to take apart. But he had a reputation to keep, and showing sentiment was showing weakness.

Blue Muun was at least one of the less seedy places in town. The rodian who ran it made his reputation off his clientele, for whom a certain level of hospitality was expected. But it was on that bottom edge of _nice_. Jango could still enter in his armor, making it easy to get past the bouncers without earning a second glance. He could also refuse the overpriced drinks that bikini-clad servers offered him on chromium-gilt platters.

Pastoo said that the contact would approach Jango, knowing to looking for his signature armor. All Jango had to do was show up on the right day, at the right time, and wait. He was expecting a fellow clubgoer to slide into his booth, which he had chosen towards the edge of the club’s rings of seating. Easy to spot, but easy to fade into the background once the conversation began.

In the meantime, he decided to enjoy the scenery. There were multiple dancers on the stage, but just one in the central pole, in the spotlight. A Korun man, his dark skin hairless and glowing with sweat and a helping of gold glitter. It highlighted his jawline, his collarbone, everywhere the man had a dip or curve that could be accented. And yet, it was tasteful, just verging on lurid.

The outfit he wore was not nearly as subtle. Black leather briefs that covered just the dip where his spine met a gorgeous ass. Some black boots with details that Jango couldn’t see, but with enough heel to make him look twice. To complete the look, the man wore gold rings, coiled like snakes, around his wrists and neck. They stayed in place as the man moved, making Jango wonder how he could even breathe. But after watching for longer, he saw the rings flex with the man’s movement. He was in control of every part of his body, even the parts that should be constraining him.

Like a warrior. Or like a king.

The thought barely crossed Jango’s mind when the man’s eyes met his from across the club. Jango thought the gaze had seared holes right through his visor, because for a few moments, those black-brown eyes never left his. Then the Korun wrapped himself around the pole and gave the dance of his life.

He pulled himself into gravity-defying splits, turned himself upside down, balanced himself on the pole by the strength of his legs alone. Every spin was careful and controlled, showing the rippling muscles that made such acrobatics possible in stunning detail, even in the club’s smoky lights.

And when the Korun wasn’t ignoring the laws of physics, he was ignoring the laws of basic sentient decency. The man nearly did everything to the pole that Jango wanted to do to him. He ground his ass into the pole, his hips moving in a slow circle that demanded every ounce of Jango’s attention. Sweat glimmered off his skin as he shimmied up and down the pole, undulating like a wave beneath the stage lights.

When some shithead weequay tried to cop a feel for the Korun’s ankle, Jango felt a stab of jealousy that he stamped out immediately. Luckily, that weequay’s hand also got stamped immediately, ground beneath the heel of the Korun’s boot in a half-second movement that anyone else might attribute to a simple accident.

Like this god dripping in gold would ever make a mistake.

Haar’chak, Jango was too far gone. He really needed to get laid after this meeting if a dancer he’s never met is giving him this kind of reaction. Jango flagged down a waitress for a glass of water and a shot of whiskey. She smiled at him sympathetically as he gulps both down like a parched man leaving a desert.

The music ended at some point, because the bane of Jango’s existence climbed down from the pole and into the crowd. Waving hands stuffed with credits parted for him, but not without getting a feel for the Korun’s skin first. The man gave no sign of it bothering him. Instead, he made direct eye contact with Jango again. Meaningfully, and for several long seconds, in case Jango didn’t get the message.

Then he sat down in an empty booth, closer to the stage than Jango’s but far enough away that it was tucked away. Out of the spotlight, the Korun went from shining gold to merely glimmer, enough to lose the interest of most patrons.

Jango’s contact hadn’t shown yet, but it wasn’t like they wouldn’t know who to look for. And if the contact wanted to meet at a dancing club, then they shouldn’t care if Jango took advantage of some of the recreation available.

He abandoned his booth and made for the Korun. The man was sipping some blue iced beverage, the glass sweating in the heat of the club. Even in the dark corner of the booth, his bracelets glittered in the light, and so did the golden paint dusted on his cheekbones. He didn’t look at Jango as the hunter made his approach, but he was completely calm and unsurprised when Jango stopped to stand before him.

Jango was a Mandalorian in the prime of his life. He had earned his armor back, avenged his clan, and killed his betrayers. And yet, in the eyes of this Korun, for a brief moment, Jango felt stripped to his bone. The gaze that rippled of his body could’ve been that of a warrior sizing up his competition, or a man sizing up a conquest.

Jango took off his helmet and sat down.

“Took you a while to get closer," the Korun finally said. His gaze never left Jango's. "Like what you see?”

Eyebrows raised at the bluntness, Jango responded, “I wasn’t here expecting to see something I liked.”

“You come here not to see?” replied the man. “Then for what?”

“Something . . . else.” Jango let the word trail off purposefully. He knew that dancers were more than entertainment; they could be valuable sources of information for both allies and enemies. Jango didn’t want either to know what he was doing at Blue Muun tonight.

“To touch, then?” The Korun tilted his head, curious. Somehow he managed to look coquetteish with the shoulders of a predator and the barest scrap of clothing. The man uncrossed his legs and Jango was invited to view of how bare that scrap was.

“Maybe,” said Jango, wetting his lips as he permitted himself to look. “Depends what I’m offered.”

The Korun hummed. “Your armor would get in the way of what I’m offering you. Perhaps a private room?”

An alarm bell rang in Jango’s head. A private room with a dancer he’s never met with the body of a warrior: a perfect place for an ambush. He leaned back from the Korun but moved his hand just slightly closer to his blaster. “How much would it cost me?” he asked casually, reminding himself of the exits.

The Korun didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a long swig of his drink, as if deciding something. The man then stood up from the booth, crossed to Jango’s side, and settled into his lap. He managed to make it look elegant and dignified, even though Jango knew his armor plates must be digging painfully into his skin.

The closeness of the man did nothing to make him less dangerous. Nor did it help Jango’s arousal. “I don't think I've paid you enough for this kind of treatment,” said Jango, low under his breath. He brought one hand to the Korun’s hip, the other to his blaster. He wasn’t above shooting someone down in a club without a fair fight.

“The staging costs are high here, but I’m willing to gamble,” admitted the Korun airily. Then closer to Jango’s ear, he breathed, “You’ll pay me no more than what you promised a mutual friend, Jango Fett.”

Jango froze. _The contact will approach you_ , Pastoo had said.

Haar'chak. Well played.

“In that case,” said Jango back, more loudly, “a private room sounds perfect.” His hands skimmed over the Korun’s waist. The hint of an exhale was the only indication that the man was affected by Jango’s touch. Those dark eyes remained firm and unchanged. Jango wasn’t sure if the glare was meant as a threat or a challenge.

(Later, he’d find out it was both.)

The Korun slipped out of Jango’s hands gently to stand. He took one of Jango’s hands into his own, gently pulling at it to lead. “Shall we?”

As Jango stood up himself, he slid his free hand up the Korun’s body. He kept his touch light while committing to the role of lust-filled patron. It was tempting to be slow, to take his time learning the skin of the man. Later, he promised himself. If the man was truly interested.

“Do I get to know your name?” asked Jango on impulse. He knew full well that whatever the man said was likely to be a lie.

Aptly, the man snorted. “Call me Mace, but not here.”

Jango barely remembered to grab his helmet before he was hauled to a private room by the man. He barely remembered it on the way out of Blue Muun, too.

He did try, however, to remember the man's name.

**Author's Note:**

> Species are lowercased on purpose. The Korunnai, like Mandalorians, are an ethnicity, so they're left capitalized. 
> 
> Fantasynamegenerators dot com is responsible for every name here that's not Mace Windu, Jango Fett, or Nar Shadda. 
> 
> Kudos are appreciated, comments are adored. Follow me on [tumblr](https://reyiosa.tumblr.com/) for more bad content.


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